


Five Times Elio Hurt Himself To Stop Crying And One Time He Cried Because He Hurt

by elioolivercmbyntrash



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: AU, AU Modern World, Cutting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self Harm, Whump, the age gap is smaller than in cannon, trigger warning, tw self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elioolivercmbyntrash/pseuds/elioolivercmbyntrash
Summary: 5 + 1 PromptFive Times Elio Hurt Himself To Stop Crying And One Time He Cried Because He HurtTrigger warning - self harm is mentioned 5 times in this fic. Please take care.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	Five Times Elio Hurt Himself To Stop Crying And One Time He Cried Because He Hurt

1

Elio said goodbye to Oliver yesterday at the train station.

He has refused breakfast, although he has nibbled at the toast Mafalda left for him on a tray outside his bedroom door. She’s like a second mother to him, showing her love through the food she prepares, and she knows that Elio can’t resist toast with salted butter.

Elio knows that Oliver’s still in the air, somewhere over the Atlantic. He’s read the texts Elio’s sent him, but hasn’t replied yet. 

His friends are arranging a day at the river and then a night out. The late August sun is still hot and pleasant enough, although the nights are drawing in and they’ll all be leaving their summer homes soon. Elio’s muted the group chat. He has no energy. Don’t they understand that he’s just had the summer of his life and now it’s over he just wants to sleep? 

“Elio?” his mother knocks at the door. 

Elio groans and pulls the covers over his head. There’s no trace of Oliver left. The sheets were changed as soon as they’d both left. Elio thinks he will murder Mafalda if she puts Billowy in the wash. Billowy smells musty and of dried sweat. He can also smell the Tom Ford  _ Noir  _ scent that Oliver wears;  black cardamom and white musk, bold and exotic. It matches Oliver’s personality, and Elio loves that.

“Elio, are you all right?” his mother persists.

“Yes,” calls Elio.

“Why don’t you go for a swim or a jog?” she says. “It’s lovely outside.”

“Maybe later.”

“At least come down for lunch later. You haven’t left your room since you got home yesterday.”

“Maybe, Maman.”

*

Elio’s phone pings. 

**OLIVER:**

_ Back safe in NYC. _

Elio stares at the message. Elio had sent him a long, emotional text yesterday, putting into words what he wasn’t able to say out loud, and Oliver barely even acknowledged it. 

Elio’s eyes burn with tears that threaten to spill. He’s too tired to cry, and he doesn’t want to cry because then it would make all of his pain real. He can’t hurt anymore.

Elio locks himself in the bathroom and finds the razor blades that he keeps hidden for emergencies like this. He takes the blade to the top of his thigh, which less than 48 hours ago Oliver had been kissing, and flinches as the steel cuts into his skin.

He watches the pain pool at the surface of the wound and drip down his thigh. He tastes it. The blood is metallic. 

He checks the wound, making sure it’s not too deep. He’s always careful. Elio does not want anyone to find out he cuts himself. He doesn’t do it much, so it’s not a problem, right?

He washes his face, yawns, runs his fingers through his hair and takes a shower so he’s presentable for lunch.

2

It’s been two months since Oliver left. They’ve exchanged a few texts, but Elio misses the deep conversations they used to have.

**OLIVER**

_ How’s school? Have you applied to colleges yet?  _

**ELIO**

_ It’s boring, and I already applied to Julliard. Can we FaceTime soon? I miss seeing your face. Can’t remember what you look like. _

**OLIVER**

_ I look the same. I’m really busy right now but maybe we could over the holidays. _

**ELIO**

_ Elio Elio Elio  _

Elio deletes the message. He doesn’t want to look desperate. He knows that all he was to Oliver was a summer fling, a quick shag, and Elio was naïve to fall for him and to believe that he loved him.

_ Well, fuck him,  _ Elio thinks. 

Cuts cover his thighs; fresh, pink ones, old crusty ones, and angry raised white scars. It’s scary how quickly he’s come to rely on it, but it’s the one thing he has control over. He makes another cut on his thigh and exhales deeply, his breath wobbling.

  
  


3

Oliver calls to wish them a happy Hanukkah.

He also tells Elio that he might get married next Spring, and Elio almost throws up. His parents congratulate Oliver, but it takes Elio a few minutes to process what Oliver just said. He congratulates him because he has to.

Elio puts the phone down and pretends to attend to the fire. He’s crying again. He knows he should help set the table, but he doesn’t want his parents or Mafalda to see he’s crying. 

He bites his lip and goes to the bathroom. His mother places a hand on his shoulder and smiles. 

“It’ll be alright,  _ bambino _ ,” she says.

_ No, it won’t be,  _ he thinks, as he sits on the toilet. He has to go deeper now to get the dopamine. He worries that one day he will go too deep, but he’s not sure what else to do. He winces as the blood, so bright and full of life, runs down the inside of his thigh and drops into the toilet bowl. 

4

“I’ve called the wedding off,” says Oliver. “I broke up with her.”

“Oh,” says Elio. _Do you love me?_ _Is that why you broke up with her?_

“I’ve asked your dad if I can visit at Easter and he’s said yes.”

“Yes,” says Elio. 

Papa had told him last night at dinner, and if Elio didn’t want to go to the villa with everyone, he’s welcome to stay in Milan.

“Are you OK?” asks Oliver.

“Yes. It’ll be great to see you again.”

“You sound different. Are you sure you’re OK?”

Elio lies and tells Oliver he has to rehearse for a school concert that was actually last week. He locks his bedroom door and gets his razor blade.

5

Oliver’s staying in one of the guest bedrooms, so Elio gets to keep his room. He wishes that Oliver would sneak into his bedroom; he’s pushed the beds together in case. 

Elio plays for them after dinner on Oliver’s first night. It’s an original piece that he’s spent the last few weeks composing for Oliver, although he doesn’t say it’s for him.

“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” asks Elio. “Last summer, I mean.”

“We weren’t really official,” he says.

“So were you seeing her or not?”

“You can’t talk. You messed Marzia around.”

Elio knows that. He doesn’t need Oliver to remind him and he knows that he hurt Marzia. 

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he lies.

“I’m not,” replies Oliver. “I had a lucky escape. Well, later.”

Elio cuts himself. His hand slips and he cuts deeper than he meant to. His heart thumps against his chest and he thinks it might burst out of his body.

He scrunches up some toilet paper and presses it onto his wound. He washes the wound and sticks a plaster on it. The blood seeps through. Elio sticks another one on top. When the blood still flows, he bites his lip and calls his mother.

“Mom, I’m in the bathroom and I did something bad. I’m bleeding. I need help, please.”

  
  


1

“Nothing could ever happen between us,” says Oliver.

“Why not?” Elio asks. “We both like each other. There’s only a few years between us. And I’ll be in New York in the fall.”

“We just can’t,” says Oliver.

“Ever?”

Oliver nods.

Elio cries. He puts his head in his hands and sobs, his mouth open wide, his face distorting in pain.

“I’m sorry,” says Oliver. 

“I love you,” says Elio.

“I’m sorry,” says Oliver. He reaches out to hug Elio, but Elio pushes him away. 

“Don’t,” says Elio. “Please.”

Elio finds his mother sitting in the living room, reading a book on the sofa. He wipes his eyes on his sleeves and sits next to her, nestling into her side.

“Bambino?” she puts her book down and wraps an arm around Elio. He breathes in her perfume, warm and floral. He drenches her shoulder with his tears. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “There’s nothing to say. It just hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Annella ruffles his hair. “Me and Papa will always be here. If you ever want to hurt yourself again, talk to us, OK?”

“OK. Do goodbyes always hurt?”

“Yes, darling. Goodbyes are painful.”


End file.
